


Gone

by RussianCaravan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, Death, Depression, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianCaravan/pseuds/RussianCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his brothers final and ultimate death, Deans struggles to deal with his seemingly meaningless life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone

No one salted and burned Dean’s body as per hunter tradition. There was no one left to.

His brother, Sam, had died several months ago for the cause for the greater good. Before his death, Sam had stated explicitly that should he die he didn’t want to come back, there was no reason to prolong his life anymore, cheating death was worthless and he had been on the Earth more than long enough. So in a mighty battle against a Knight of Hell, Sam’s death provided enough distraction for the final-standing Knight of Hell to be killed. Sam died saving the world with his brother. Dean wasn’t the same afterwards. The toll of losing his brother again (this time to never return) weighed him down to the point of nothingness. And, once again, his thoughts turned to dark places.

He couldn’t go on any cases, he had no motivation to, but every time he neglected his job he knew he was directly responsible for the deaths of who-knows-how-many innocent people, which only sunk him lower. He turned to drinking. He drank as much as he could afford, and truly only living on strong alcohol, but the horrible sinking feeling in his chest seemed to always remain no matter how much he filled his body with alcohol. His eyes became permanently bloodshot and bagged, with sleep evading him almost every night. Not that he liked sleeping all that much, the nightmares made sure of that. He’d see his brother with blood running down his face and hurt in his eyes, while his father looked down on him from above, cursing his existence, blaming him for his brother and mothers death. After all, it was all his fault. Other nights, Dean would see Alistair grinning above him, an unknown, but sharp, utensil in his hands and a terrifying grin on his stolen face. Sometimes, he would be running through the endless woods of Purgatory, when a creature would catch the better of him and whisper in his ear “You belong here, don’t pretend you don’t”. And sometimes, he would see the one living person he hadn’t seen in so many months; Castiel. They would hug and Castiel would hold him tight while Dean cried and cursed angrily at the world, but then Castiel would pull him up so they were looking each other straight in the eye and he would say “Why did I bother coming back for you? You can’t hunt, you can’t even get out of bed, what use are you to me? You’re better off dead.” After those dreams, especially the latter, Dean would wake up in a desperate sweat.

Deep down, he knew Cas would never say such things to him, but they made perfect sense. He was pathetic, he was letting people die, he let his own brother die, he can’t do anything right. Maybe it was time to join Sam in where-ever he was. By this point, Dean didn’t care where he went; heaven, hell, purgatory, nowhere. Anything was better than the blank nothingness he felt each day. As his days spent drinking, reading online newspapers, and staring at the ceiling wore on, the idea became more and more appealing. Dean soon realised the only thing stopping him was…Cas never knowing what happened to him, but no matter how hard nor often he prayed, Castiel seemed to ignore him, and soon his one string to life was severed. He had no-one who would care or even notice his demise, not anymore. Anyone who ever mattered was dead or hadn’t communicated in months.

Finally, the date and decision was made. Dean went around the bunker locking every door. The electricity was shut off and he and Sam’s personal belongings added to the many existing Men of Letters stockpiles. He set off to the garage, where his Baby and final resting place awaited. Dust now covered the once beautiful glimmer of the Chevy; Dean hadn’t touched the car in weeks. He felt bad for neglecting her, but soon he’d never leave her. Dean pulled out a notepad and a pen, writing to the only person who could ever find and care about his body. It was a simple note, which he placed on the centre of the car’s hood. The sound of Kansas’ _Carry on My Wayward Son_ was blasted through the Chevys speakers as Dean downed a large gulp of Whiskey, taking large sips as the song went on, and, at the final chorus, he put down the bottle and picked up his favourite handgun. Tears of sadness and frustration ran down his cheeks as he shakily lifted the gun to his head. He felt a moment of doubt stint his progress. He thought to himself _am I really going to do this?_ But before the reasonable side of him could answer, another side whispered _yes_. Dean Winchester took a deep breath, held the gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered over the Chevys windows and seats, including over an inscribed _Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester_ from many decades ago.


End file.
